Thursday, June 07, 2012

The simple fact of breathing

who doesn’t change the mark he leaves, won’t risk wearing a new color, nor talk to people he doesn’t know.

He dies a slow death who avoids passion, who prefers black to white and dotted "i’s" over a whirlwind of emotions, especially those that make the eyes sparkle, rescue smiles from yawns, hearts clumsy with feelings.

He dies a slow death who doesn’t upend the table when he is unhappy at work,

who won’t risk a sure thing for the uncertainty behind a dream, who won’t allow himself, at least once in his life, to flee from sensible advice.

He dies a slow death who doesn’t travel, nor read, nor hear music,

who doesn’t laugh at himself.

He dies a slow death who destroys self-love, who won’t let himself be helped.

He dies a slow death who spends his days complaining of his bad luck or of the never-ending rain.

He dies a slow death who doesn't ask about what he doesn’t know.

Let us avoid death in small doses, always remembering that being alive requires an effort much greater than the simple fact of breathing.

-- Commonly attributed to Pablo Neruda,
but most probably belonging to Martha Medeiros

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